


she crows

by cexies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cexies/pseuds/cexies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve always admired that about you,” he admits, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He carefully leans forwards and goes for her lips again, but this time licks his tongue across the blood that forms on them. “A hurricane could hit and you’d still stand strong; even when the rest of us give up fighting you still carry on as if wounds are simply natural blemishes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	she crows

He finds her where she always ends up: a memory of the hive that is all but forgotten. On days where the radness level drops by 413%, she sulks around the place she loved most. The walls are coated in paper of a wriggler’s scribbles: idealisms in shapes and colors that reflect in the troll she grew up to become. In the middle of the room, he can make out Mituna, who is lazily flicking through a magazine. He’s reading out sections and laughing, insulting all the games that are being reviewed. There’s a pile of Scottie dogs next to him, and every so often he bites the head off of one before swallowing the body. It’s strange, because Latula hasn’t bothered with Scottie dogs ever since Meenah started making them ‘her’ thing.

Suddenly, he realizes this isn’t the usual way everything is set up.

She’s playing out a memory, and Kankri feels awkward for accidentally figuring that out. This isn’t his place to be; he needs to apologize and leave. The mere event of re-enacting a memory is a trigger in itself, and he can only imagine what he has set off by entering upon such a delicate scene. Before he can gush out the problems he has caused—and the solutions he will put in place to stop this ever happening again—the memory dissolves. The food is suddenly replaced by a pile of magazines, her old skateboard is replaced by a newer type, and Mituna ceases to exist: his form trickling away like the sand of an hourglass.

“Stop interrupting my bubbles,” Latula scowls, appearing from behind Kankri. She looks slightly hurt, but the confused expression on his face seems to coax normality back into her teasing. “Not cool man.”

“I didn’t interrupt on purpose! I had no idea; this is why you need to clearly label and describe what is happening so that everyone is on a mutual ground of respect.”

His hurried mantra doesn’t illicit a reply from Latula, and he can’t tell if his words have gone over her head, or if she just thinks he’s an idiot. Regrettably, it is always the latter. The silence is quickly becoming awkward, and all she is doing is staring him down. Is he supposed to comment on what just happened? Would that upset her further? He needs to know; she has to tell him because he can’t bear to say the wrong thing. 

“I didn’t know dream bubbles could work like this,” he tries instead, but now he is setting expectations for what the dream bubbles can and can’t do. What an ableist attitude! This whole situation is spiralling out of control and he is practically stamping on the heart of proper social etiquette. 

“I’m the Knight of Mind: ‘aint nothin’ I can’t make memories do,” shes grins, relaxing a little. Her ‘g4m3r grlz’ routine is always a good way to make her feel more secure, and he can play along with it for a while if it means avoiding this whole mess. “What are you even doing here anyway? Way to make this even more super awkz than it already is.”

At least that’s a question he knows the answer to. “Ah, well Meenah—” but then he realizes that he has once again slipped up. Perhaps he should have added a trigger warning about mentioning the name of the troll your ex-matesprit is with, but even that is triggering as a trigger. Maybe another trigger about current quadrant situations, or words and names that may lead to an emotional breakdown. The whole idea is so confusing that Kankri thinks he might be having a breakdown himself.

“Chill out,” Latula interrupts, waving away the inner monologue that’s seconds away from being repeated aloud. “It’s totally cool. Mituna and I already talked it out, well kinda… But the end of the story is that it would be totally dumb to get all whizzed out over the inevitable, y’know? Things just didn’t feel right anymore, and it’s a total drag to keep saving face,” she explains, dramatically flopping to the floor.

“Well,” Kankri begins in reply, licking over the dryness of his lips as he also lowers himself. “First of all I should offer my condolences on the parting of your matespritship. Although the event may actually be a blessing in which case allow me to substitute my condolences for a congratulations. I don’t want to assume one end of the spectrum when it may as well be the other. There are many different—” 

“Oh my God, stop talking!” She laughs, her hand now covering his mouth and muffling everything he was trying to say. However, Kankri isn’t just going to let her take away his right to speak, and he tries to tug at her wrist—to no avail. Latula has the strength of a thousand denizens, and sometimes it is quite worrying how little she realizes it. He tries to speak under her grip, but the words come out muffled and distorted. She starts laughing again, swaying to the side as the giggles work their way through her body. Kankri isn’t sure what to do, so instead he reaches for the arm that’s covering his mouth, pulling at the fabric to get her to attention. 

He succeeds in halting her laughter and her hand slips from his mouth, but it’s so sudden that the atmosphere changes. Her hand is caught just under his jawline, and she’s suddenly staring at him. There’s a little part of Kankri that wishes her eyes weren’t masked by the white sheen the dead are condemned to. There was a time when a yellow fill of life decorated them, reflecting the light whenever she grinned. Now she looks almost soulless but he realizes that her beauty is still there, and has always been there. He has spent so long just watching her, learning her and absorbing her. Even now, in a situation they have barely ever approached, he can read her perfectly. Her eyes aren’t leaving his face, and her mouth is slightly parted with thought. They are both on the same track, and it is a dangerous track to his mind.

His hand tightens on her clothing, unsure if he is is firming his resolve or letting it slip. He is a man who has chosen a purer life, trying to live without temptation or lust—but Latula has always been the apple in front of him, coaxing a bite without having to try and tempt him. Her fingers lift up to meet his cheek, and each tiny movement is amplified. She’s touching him, asking him, testing him. Her thumb brushes over his lips and he snaps. Damn celibacy justice and political correctness. There aren’t enough trigger warnings to cover every thought racing through his mind. Warnings aren’t even a thing that registers with him, because all he can think of is Latula, Latula, Latula.

He wastes no time in meeting her lips, desperately trying to feel hers against his own. She returns the kiss with matched endeavor, her arms breaking free of his hold so that she can wrap them around his neck. From there she has leverage to crawl up into his lap, and his hands reach for her hips to encourage that even further. He wants her as close as possible, flushed right against him so he can feel everything about her; there’s sweeps worth of intimacy that he’s never had the chance to experience. She knows what she’s doing more than he does, and her tongue clearly wins the battle for dominance. He doesn’t care though, there’s no time for pride when he’s too preoccupied trying to memorize the taste of her. She’s addicting and completely consuming, all he can do is keep up with her, only breaking apart to pant breaths before starting all over again. He can taste something metallic seeping into each kiss, and it’s only then that he realizes their mouths are a mesh of blood and teeth. He isn’t sure who is bleeding where, but the thought that he’s sliced open Latula’s lips is enough for the apologies to start forming in his mind. Only they don’t materialize verbally, because he doesn’t know how to form words anymore. Regardless, he still pauses her, pulling back to access the damage.

“I don’t break,” Latula reminds him with agitation, and he knows better than anyone that she doesn’t break. 

“I’ve always admired that about you,” he admits, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He carefully leans forwards and goes for her lips again, but this time licks his tongue across the blood that forms on them. She gasps and his stomachs flips. So he does it again. This time slower, carefully tracing the shape of her lower lip. “A hurricane could hit and you’d still stand strong; even when the rest of us give up fighting you still carry on as if wounds are simply natural blemishes,” he murmurs, lips inches from hers where he’s unable to stop talking to carry on with what he’s set out to do. “Even when you’re hit, you don’t react. You just screw up your face on one side and bite your lip. I’ve hardly ever heard you complain from pain.” She shivers from his words, never entirely sure how to respond to his observations. So instead she kisses him again, and Kankri can’t complain about that. 

He’s pretty sure that now they’re just kissing so that she can shut up him but, as her tongue slides over his, he isn’t in a rush to stop her. Still, it isn’t enough for him now; he’s greedy and wanting and he needs attention everywhere. The thought that there’s parts of her he still hasn’t touched is one that needs to be changed. He runs his hands so they’re just under her hips, pulling her further up against his lap. Unfortunately Kankri isn’t too well versed in gravity and mass, which leads to the pair toppling backwards. Latula gives a little shriek and grabs hold of his shoulders, while Kankri coughs and worries that his spine is possibly broken. His concern is soon lost as Latula moves backwards, accidentally pressing against his bulge. He gasps from the contact, hands flailing with no idea where to put them. Apparently the sudden movement is pleasing to Latula too, as she grinds against him again, eliciting moans out of the both of them. With that, he knows where to put his hands and they rest just below her ass, pushing her against him: over and over. Kankri’s breath comes out in heavier pants, and the new-found discovery of dry humping is one he fails to see how he lived without. 

Just as soon as they’ve started, they’ve stopped, and Kankri lets out a low whine with disapproval: but Latula is quickly quietening him with her mouth, silent promises of something better. “Too many layers,” she points out, slinking her hands underneath his sweatshirt. Her nails rake up his sides, and come back down over the route of where his grub legs used to be. Having someone touch a part of him that was only useful for less than a sweep is strange, but the intimacy of it has his cheeks burning red. Latula uses the opportunity to lift his damned sweater over his head, and he happily sheds the offending item. She quickly removes her own t-shirt and undershirt, probably to save the time Kankri would have spent fumbling with it. 

Before Kankri even has time to admire her, Latula is crawling back over his frame and running her fingertips across his stomach. His breath hitches and she smirks, letting his torso take her weight. His hips give a subtle jerk at the pressure and expectations from beforehand, but Latula simply giggles instead—prompting the realization that they’re going down another route. Her head bows until her mouth can reach his again, and then she’s kissing across his jawline, only to switch to licking strips down his throat. Kankri has never considered the merits of such actions, but he’s more than aware that this is totally something he could get off on, can get off on, and totally is getting off on. He ends up tangling his hand in her hair, twirling the locks while she starts biting across his collar bones. Her teeth catch on his skin every so often, and the attention her tongue gives to the small pricks of blood is more than enough compensation. 

Still, she carries on moving downwards—claws softly scratching at his sides as her mouth moves down his chest, starting to leave bruises as more pressure is applied. Kankri can only squirm under her touch, breathing heavier as she manages to trace over his stomach. It becomes glaringly obvious where her mouth is about to end up, and the noise that comes out of Kankri’s mouth is almost shameful. Latula pulls herself away from her task, another delicious grin forming on her mouth. Her fingers work quickly, making light work of his fastenings and lifting his hips just enough to tug his pants down. The muffled warmth of her mouth had felt good enough, but something with a real sense of tangibility is almost too much. He bucks up into her touch, choking out her name as he tries to find a point to anchor himself to.

If she keeps touching him then everything is going to be over quickly, and that isn’t what he wants. If there’s a way to draw this all out until seconds become hours, then that’s more than okay with him. “Stop,” he rasps, shivering as Latula stops and moves her face so that their pupils would be focused on each other, if they still owned such luxuries As his eyes trace her fingers hovering inches from his bulge, Kankri suddenly feels bolder. He sits up again, hands reaching for wrists and moving her closer to him. “If this is okay,” he stumbles, still slightly breathless with a blush trailing up and across his features.

Latula moves closer with a chuckle, gently kissing him with what Kankri hope is reassurance. He isn’t entirely sure what to do, and suddenly taking initiative is a daunting task he doesn’t want to fail at. For the most part, Kankri mimics her earlier administrations: tongue tracing the hollow of her neck while his hands slide down her curves. He’s captivated by the feeling of her skin, pressing into her hips and rolling his fingers over her rib cage She responds to each touch, softly humming and kissing his neck whenever it’s in reach. With growing confidence, Kankri lets his hands slip down past her hips, moving over her the leggings that cover her thighs until he’s resting just under them. His eyes flicker back up to Latula’s, but her attention is somewhat held by drawing patterns at the nape of his neck. With an intimation of resolve, Kankri slowly draws his forefinger over the black material, tracing over the outline of her nook. The reaction is instant, her spine curls over as her forehead comes to reach his shoulder. He repeats the action again, his face starting to burn as Latula’s breath comes in erratic pants; the warmth tickles his neck, almost as if to tease to heat that’s growing under her touch.

“Hold up,” she whispers into him, with a tone tacked onto her voice that Kankri can’t place—but it still does ridiculously wonderful things to his stomach. Her grip on him relents, so Kankri does the same, simply watching as her body unfolds from his own. Latula throws another smirk in his direction, hands running down her sides until she reaches the leggings. With what feels like a waiting time of eternity, she slowly begins to push them down—revealing the white of her thighs and underwear that Kankri isn’t sure he has permission to look at. Nonetheless, his eyes follow every action, all too aware of her skin and her curves and the falter as she hits her knees.

”Fuck man, I can’t do this sultry shebang,” she laughs, and it’s so utterly Latula that Kankri wonders if it’s possible to adore someone too much. Still, she carries on undressing and Kankri finds his attention caught on each reveal of skin. So much so, that Latula stops midway and raises a brow. “Dude. Pants.”

He splutters a chorus of apologies, scrambling to remove his clothes to her request. His inexperience leaves him flustered and, as always, Latula remains as in control as ever. He nervously sits back again, feeling exposed but still despairingly turned on. On the other hand, Latula kneels back down again, giggling as if their situation is entirely normal. He takes a few minutes to compose himself, simply studying Latula’s face and trying to work out how much of everything is actually reality. She stares right back at him, only stopping to huff with a small smile of amused affection. 

Without thinking, he moves to cup her face, a lifetime of dedication pouring from the thumb that brushes over her cheek. “You always smile with your whole face, the tips reach your eyes and you always look so happy,” he rambles, both embarrassed by his speech but yet not at all—wanting Latula to know such things about herself. Her vision falters from his own, as if to look away, but then she cups his face in return and presses forwards again. 

Once again, sitting upwards becomes a struggle and it takes all of Kankri’s effort to remain upright. There’s no way to describe what anything feels like, his head is swarming and all Kankri is capable of is stuttering out noises. Latula fares better, pulling most of his weight center and waiting for him to catch up. She kisses his face as his mind reels, and eventually the reassurance is enough. His hands slip behind her head, trailing down the steps of her spine until they have a hold on her lower back. Taking it as a sign to move again, Latula presses down on his bulge again—shakily cursing as Kankri tries not to shout. It takes a few more unsteady thrusts for him to be comfortable, but soon enough the teasing of some kind of release is enough for him to return each movement. They quickly begin to pick up pace, Kankri finding confidence in gripping Latula’s waist as she arches against him. “You’re beautiful, always beautiful,” he gasps, mouthing pressing open kisses against her throat. She rocks against him in reply, hands so tightly wound in his hair that Kankri swears she’s trying to pull out strands. 

All he can hear is Latula panting, practically whining his name in between breaths. There have never been two syllables as beautiful as his own right now, and they sound so natural on her tongue that he wants to keep them there forever. With another thrust he aims to do just that, breaking as he reaches his peak. She manages to keep it together for longer, lasting long enough to feel his claws scrape over her back as her thighs tighten around his hips. As she cums, she rolls her hips around his bulge and the sensation sends trembles through his body. He buries his head in her shoulder and rambles broken words that merge her name with expletives: riding out his orgasm while totally absorbed in Latula. 

Finishing leaves him exhausted, and Kankri allows the balance to finally topple as he falls onto his side with Latula still close to his chest. He pulls out of her and they simply lay in natural silence, only broken by the rasps of their breathing. Through the haze of euphoria he can make out Latula drawing patters over his skin again, slowly bringing his thoughts back to situation. Her eyes have slipped closed and there’s a smile tugging at her lips, just enough to show glimpses of her canines. He wants to coax her head back far enough so that he can kiss her, gently and tenderly. 

But instead, something clicks.

“Oh no,” he breathes out, and Latula blinks her eyes open—apparently re-focusing on him. Suddenly the world is claustrophobic and there’s a tightening in his chest which is very alike to dying. Maybe this is how you kill a ghost a second time: through crippling guilt that drops through their entire being. He pushes away from her and rakes his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots as his head bows. In minutes, he has broken every code that he has made himself out of. Kankri Vantas is not a troll who does not think before he acts; if he has not covered every outcome and possible emotional reaction then he has not done his job properly. How could he forget the self-policing of morals? He is not like all those other trolls who have no restraint and do not respect the romantic courtship that must be initiated before lust. This is all totally wrong, he has suddenly succumbed to the type of troll that social justice does not make room for. His pact of celibacy is even in tatters, and what moral high ground can he stand upon now?

“It wasn’t that bad was it?” Latula half-chuckles, with anxiousness filling in the cracks. She sits up — presumably so she can get a better look at him — but that then leads him to look up at her too. Her body is still flushed and her hair is tumbling over her left shoulder. The beginnings of marks are starting to rise on her skin, and a faint smear of his blood is still under her lips. A wave of lust pulses through him, which doesn’t do anything to help the situation. If anything, it makes it worse because now he is looking at her as if she is pornographic material, the kind of objectifying that he has always spoken against. An exasperated groan passes through his lips, and ends up burying his face into his knees. 

From the corner of his eyes he can see Latula fumbling with his stupid sweater, but then she’s moving back into his personal space and draping an arm around his shoulder. Her fingers skim across his frame, painting reassurance across the surface of his skin. “It doesn’t matter, you were never obligated Kankri. You proved the point all along so don’t beat yourself up about this,” she whispers to him, kissing and nuzzling into his hair. 

No, he sighs internally, no it does matter. He wants confirmation that he isn’t just some kind of fling after Mituna; he doesn’t want to break celibacy for such a fleeting moment. Deep down, he has always known he wants Latula as a whole—everything about her he wants to be able to keep for his own, and he wants for her to feel the same without regrets. Perhaps he’s always known celibacy would be obtainable if Latula was unreachable, and in the same conclusion maybe he’s always known that he would break it for her in a heartbeat. Maybe he has never been the man he wants others to think he is, or maybe it has been what has shaped him all along. No matter how he feels about it, what’s done is done and there will be plenty of time to berate himself later. Latula is a constant distraction from everything, and even now her kisses make him realize the fact that she’s still there, and still dealing with problems past anything that could ever be regarded as casual.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, finally shaking off the drowning feeling. “And you don’t have to wear the sweater either. I don’t want you to think that the problem here is your body because I am not against any body types here. All sizes, shapes and colors are welcome — but even then you have nothing to worry about. Not that there is a perfect body type because everyone is different and there should be equal respect and acceptance among all. However, in the unequal event that there was a perfect body then your own would fit into that category without trying so there is no need for you feel insecure.”

”Kankri,” She sighs, leaning against him again. “It was cold.”

“Oh.” It’s a lie and they both know it, but her consideration to his panic attack is sweet enough to make his heart hum. While she’s never exactly humored his trigger warning campaign, she’s never gone against him and has always payed particular attention to those of the others. One day he’ll tell her how much he appreciates that: how much her kindness is reflected in every action — but for now he doesn’t. “Then are you still cold?”

“Totalz,” she smiles, and a chuckle of a laugh escapes from his throat. She nudges him and he finally relents, letting her worm her way back in to his arms again. Kankri can’t say he feels any less relieved about the mess of his thoughts but… Latula is happily slipping into sleep against him, and for now, that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i have to admit that this is actually a request for the kinkmeme which i never posted?? seeing some prompts in my inbox reminded me of it and i finished it off. its a terribly old fic though so i have to apologize for the quality of writing.


End file.
